


Centre of the City

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:25:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There were parts of the city that were still unmapped in his mind." </p><p>Sherlock maps out London as the seasons change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Centre of the City

There were parts of the city that were still unmapped in his mind. Not completely obscure, but he preferred to avoid Whitehall when he could (too much security interrupting him as he tried to place everything in his mind); and the further he got from the city centre, the more he preferred to look to locals for their landmarks. But in his area— his territory of London proper and all the little nooks and crannies that involved— Sherlock liked to think that the city was his. It opened to him; he could safely follow the river; he could peek in on all the little spots that most of the common populace preferred to avoid. He knew about the paths behind and above the main streets, and could identify a person’s commute based on the soil and dust they collected throughout the day. He knew just how everything in his little world worked and what tiny change could affect it all. 

Everything changed with the seasons. 

When winter was still just a threat of cold rains, and a layer of snow that would be gone by morning, Sherlock started his morning walks. There was something about winter that brought the most change to the city itself— the crowds were still there, the weather was generally still miserable, crisp winds and cold rains sent the tourists hiding indoors and the citizens rushing about their business more than usual. The city, for all the silence and subduing the cold winds could bring, was more alive in winter. Busier, more vibrant. 

Like a hive of bees huddled in on itself and furiously trying to generate heat. 

He would leave some time around midnight— checking new construction and detours along the main roads before he spent the early hours of the morning looking at things from a new perspective. He never directly retraced his steps as he wandered the wet-grey streets and catalogued anything that stood out to him. Collar turned up against the rain and bite of the cold, he would find himself in the constant flow of changes the city had to offer— a stream of distractions and petty things that everyone else was too blind to see, but kept his mind sharp and on track. 

The hotels near Paddington were flourishing in the wake of the Olympics, but a few blocks away they were dying. There was a nasty rumour here, a bit of fraud there. The owner of the bookstore here was having an affair with the independent gallery owner from two streets over (they met in the café that lies within walking distance one lunch break— the barista gives them both a fond look as they stop in before parting ways for the night; the barista is unaware that both women are married to others, despite the difference in wedding rings). There was a group of youths looking to start a gang, unaware of the territory they were in— there would be a case by the end of the month at this rate. Banksy was scouting a new mural space, and Sherlock offers him a polite nod as they pass each other— his sister is doing better now that she has a proper job in one of the high street shops. 

To any outside observer, Sherlock was just meandering around the city. An aimless wanderer as the city changed from day to night to day. 

To Jim, it was another interesting quirk. Despite the regularity of Sherlock’s paths, it was impossible to set someone to tail him. He noticed when someone wasn’t supposed to be where they were. There were alleys and rooftop paths, side streets, and cabs that he could use to cover his tracks or turn the tables and observe just who was following him, instead. When it came to bribing the local homeless, they were untouchable— oddly loyal to Sherlock, and surprisingly clever as a group; when one turned on Holmes, they all turned on that one. He could set up watches: a person here or there to signal as Sherlock wandered past. 

But Sherlock always knew. 

Despite the routine of Sherlock’s walks, Jim could never pin him down. 

It was getting late in the winter before the first snows stayed longer than a few hours in the dark, but the coating of white was destroyed before it set by the sheer volume of traffic over it. Still, in the early morning, along some side street lined with the simple terrace homes of those too wealthy and average to bother going out after dark, Jim followed Sherlock. He could trace the neat, precise steps taken by the other man along the pavement; see him weave between what few people were actually out at this hour in the morning. 

It was cold, and they were both bundled against the wind, and they were both totally ignored by the larger crowd of life buzzing around the clubs. 

“I should buy you a drink.” Jim said as he brushed up against the other man— opting for a bold approach before he got bored just watching. “Get you warm.”

“You must be getting tired of lurking.”

“Not _lurking_ now, darling.” Jim grinned up at the taller man, all teeth. “Skulking, perhaps, that sounds better when you’re wandering around. I’ll buy you a drink. We’ll talk. You’ll enjoy it.”

Sherlock returned the grin with a small smirk, eyes already taking in the details of Moriarty he could see under the bright, festive lights of the lively streets. “You’re very certain of that.” 

“Consider it an order.” 

“No.”

“Scared?”

“I’m busy.”

Jim moved quick, pulling Sherlock into a quieter alley by the collar. He was prepared for the way Sherlock fought back— the grip to his arm, the blow to his chest, the throw, the pin to the damp pavement. He laughed, never releasing his grip on the man’s coat for the whole of the throw. He landed well, fairly cushioned by his own shifting weight. 

“Good! Lovely!” He grinned up at Sherlock; amused by the suspicion he could read on the man, grinning at the way the grip finally loosened. “So gorgeous when you think I’m threatening you.”

“What do you _want_?”

“You, pet. You, and a drink, and that delicious little spark of yours.” Jim pushed Sherlock off of him once he felt the man. They stood apart, Sherlock standing like a man ready to run, and Jim grinning up at him from the filth of the alley like a madman looking at his messiah. “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re _new_.”

It started to snow. It could have been rain if it wasn’t so faint as it wove its way through the wind. It started slow, on the street, where the lamps and signs illuminated the larger flashes and flakes as the first few, fat flakes started to land— only to disappear in the damp.

“One drink.”

“One drink.” Jim agreed. “One night.”

“No.”

“One night.”

It was nearly dawn by the time Sherlock opened the front door to 221 Baker Street. The light dusting of snow that had started several hours ago had finally started to stick. It would be gone again soon enough, but it was clinging for now— a bit of cold trying to keep the city rushing for warmth. His coat was already off by the time he climbed the steps to the flat, gloves that didn’t quite fit him pulled off as he relaxed into the warmth of the far more familiar little sanctuary he had built for himself. 

He was lost in thought on the sofa by the time John reclaimed the kitchen and kettle. 

This evening, he would wander a bit further.


End file.
